Today
A debate was sparked off on Facebook recently, when 2 bowls of chopped up veg were displayed. Both salad-type veg, one with the items in large chunks and separate, the other more finely chopped and mixed up. Were they both salads?
The answer seemed to be "yes" with much of the discussion centring on whether a salad needs to be mixed up or not.
In My Day
When I was a child, salads took two forms. In summer time plates of entirely separate items were arranged on the table and you took what you wanted. Included would be: round or cos lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber, spring onions, cooked, pickled beetroot. There might also be a potato salad. made with salad cream, or taken out of a Heinz tin. To accompany this would be ham or pork pie, tinned salmon or luncheon meat. In no way were these items mixed up until they reached your plate, but was always referred to a salad.
In winter Mamma would make "winter salad". This was most definitely mixed. The groundwork always included celery, onions, beetroot, grated carrot and white cabbage. To this Mamma would add a range of other veg and fruit. Sometimes apple or oranges, maybe nuts; she often would add a mystery ingredient which might be raisins or some other vegetable. Everything was strictly seasonal. The whole salad was put into the big mixing bowl, then thoroughly mixed with salad cream, making the whole thing slightly pink on account of the beetroot. This would be served with corned beef and, on occasion, a baked potato. I think we used to wolf this down,
It seems that the word salad has a variety of meanings, depending on your standpoint; the main criteria these days seeming to include raw vegetables of some kind.
Thursday, July 26, 2018
Monday, July 23, 2018
Long Distance
Today
Today is my 47th Wedding anniversary. These days, long marriages don't just happen by virtue of simply living long enough. I think that it's a combination of love, knowing the rules and generally embracing the experience. And I think that it resembles a long journey; in fact, I wrote about this some years ago, and am reproducing it here.
In My Day
The Marriage Train
Getting married is like travelling on the Penzance-Aberdeen express
Preparation
You should buy your ticket in plenty of time and check the details carefully. Make sure that you have enough luggage packed. Don’t burden yourself with too much or you may not be able to get on. If you buy your ticket at the last minute you may not have time to pack and find yourself starting the journey with not enough to see you through. You might also find that you haven’t understood clearly the terms of your ticket.
The Ticket
These are the terms of your ticket:
Departure Times
Allow enough time to catch the train
If you allow too much time, you may be heartily bored by the time the train arrives and start your journey in the wrong frame of mind
If you rush onto the platform at the last minute you might have forgotten something or even jump on the wrong train.
The journey
You climb onto the train and settle into the best seat you can find. You wave good bye to your friends and family and see that your luggage is safely stowed. The view is lovely; you can see the moors and glimpses of the sea. It’s very exciting and you eagerly look out from one side to the other and can’t stop chattering to your companion about how lovely it all is.
Soon you get used to the motion of the train and you get out a book or listen to music on your personal stereo, occasionally talking to your companion or pointing out the more interesting views.
You stretch out your legs, only to find that they are doing the same. You may need to tuck your legs in from time to time and they will have to do the same for you.
Sometimes the train passes through tunnels. The lights in the compartment go dim and every noise is unpleasantly loud. You can hardly see your companion’s face. Before you know it the tunnel’s passed. Now, another one. You get used to these short tunnels and learn how to deal with them. When you go through the next one you are confident that you can cope. Just as you think the tunnel is going to end, it doesn’t. You begin to panic slightly, although you might not wish to show it. Eventually you flash out into the light again.
At Gloucester, the train stops. When it leaves again, to your horror, you realise that the train is going backwards! Should you ring the communication cord? Should you jump off the train? After a while you see that this has been necessary so that the train can get onto another set of rails in order to continue toward Aberdeen.
The motion of the train is very steady as it rushes on at 125mph. You fall asleep. Beware you don’t sleep for the rest of the journey or that you are always asleep when your companion is awake and vice versa. Your companion and fellow travellers may decide to leave the train, or you may reach your journey’s end without having noticed any of the exciting and beautiful things on the way.
Stations
The train will pass through stations. At many of these it won’t stop; you catch a glimpse of pretty, sleepy, wayside stations. All you will have time to say is, “How pretty, what was the name? I didn’t catch it?”
At others it will. It will be very tempting to get out at these stations and take a look around. After the steadiness of the journey, a change of pace may seem exciting. However, the terms of your ticket are that you may not break your journey at any point. If the temptation is very strong you may decide to get off anyway. You don’t mention it to the guard - they are likely to refuse. So you slip off, hoping that you can just nip back on again, unseen. What could go wrong? A good deal, believe me.
While you are having a refreshing cup of coffee the train may leave without you. All your luggage, your chosen travelling companion and fellow travellers are still on the train. You run after it, calling. But it’s gone, and when you return to your cup of coffee, it’s cold, or doesn’t taste so good, or the waitress has cleared it away.
You may decide to catch another train. To begin with it seems just as exciting as the first. But you’ve left so much luggage behind on the other train. Your new companion has a good deal of their own, plus a number of fellow-travellers whom you don’t know. They take up a good deal of space and resent you having the best seat, and you have no idea whether you will like each other better as the journey progresses.
Or you may nip back onto the train. But not, alas, unseen. Your travelling companion sees you and calls the guard. The guard draws your attention to the terms of the ticket and advises you that your action has invalidated it. You may be thrown off the train. If your travelling companion is willing, the company may concessionally allow you to continue, but you will be under surveillance from now on.
You might find that your companion had seen you get off and decided to find another companion. So, when you get back to your seat it’s occupied.
You might be lucky and slip back into your seat while your companion is sleeping. But you have had an experience without them. You would like to share it with them, but, if you do, they may call the guard. Also the taste of that coffee is still with you. So you find ways of expressing yourself by criticising the amenities of the train, the quality of the coffee or the slowness of the journey. This puzzles your companion whose pleasure in the journey is now diminished and who hesitates to tell you about the view in case you criticise that, too. They may give more attention to your fellow-travellers so that you feel left out.
Delays, Points & Derailments
During the journey there may be delays. The train mysteriously grinds to a halt. There is not a station in sight and a heavy silence descends. No explanation for the delay is given. You discuss this with your companion, but they tell you to be patient; we’ll soon get going again. Their composure infuriates you. You threaten to get off the train and walk. This is never wise. The train will start again and soon be speeding northwards.
When approaching a big junction, you will go over points. They are noisy and uncomfortable. The train slows down and you wonder if the bumping will ever stop. In fact, this is one of the things that may tempt you to get off at the next stop to have a look around. But, of course, once you’re through Birmingham New Street or Sheffield, the train will pick up speed and you’ll be congratulating yourself on having stayed put.
Occasionally, the train breaks down completely. It is shunted into a siding and you are told that you will be bussed to the nearest station. If this happens you will just have to make the best of it. You will not improve your chances of getting to your journey’s end by making a fuss.
The worst disaster that can happen is a derailment. This happens when there is something on the track, if one train hits another or the track is not properly laid. You will almost certainly suffer an injury and will have to leave your travelling companion. Allow anyone who is able to help through this time; you’re going to need them.
Fellow Travellers
You may remember that your ticket allows you an unlimited number of fellow travellers. However, you have to share your seat and refreshments with them. At the beginning of the journey, you and your companion luxuriously stretched out your legs and spread your luggage about as you wished. As each fellow traveller joins you, you have to contract your space a bit more. They are noisy and inclined for conversation, especially, it seems when you want to have a bit of a doze or talk to your companion. They are bad at managing their luggage too, and are always asking you to help them add or discard some or move it to another place. When you take time to listen to their conversation, though, you find that it’s very interesting and that each fellow-traveller has a specific charm. You laugh a lot and feel thoroughly woken up. In fact, if you choose to take no fellow travellers, you may find it hard to stay awake.
Beware of giving too much attention to one fellow traveller - the others may take offence or the one may start to take up too much room. On the other hand, don’t ignore them. If you do, when you get to Aberdeen, you may find that they left the train while you were asleep and didn’t even say goodbye.
As the journey progresses these travellers will want to get out at each station. As you know that they are not coming all the way with you, you will have to allow this. At first, each excursion will be made with either you or your companion. Soon they will be nipping out briefly at little wayside stops and halts. At some point they will get off the train to commence their own journeys. If all has gone well they will wish you a loving farewell and make sure that you are kept informed of progress.
Now you and your companion can stretch out again. The seats feel twice as big as when you started your journey. If the journey is going according to plan, you will both enjoy this very much and take a renewed interest in the scenery. Be sympathetic, though, if your companion takes a little time to adjust to the extra space.
Travelling without a ticket
Some people try to make the journey without a ticket. This may seem like a good idea at the time. You are not bound by any terms and conditions and can leave the train whenever you like. What you haven’t bargained for is that your companion can do the same. It’s no good complaining to the guard; as you haven’t a ticket there’s nothing they can do. They may feel sorry for you but will explain that the train is not bound to carry you and will put you off at the next stop.
Journey’s end
Eventually you approach your journey’s end. For some time the train has been slowing down; each sight of the mountains seems more beautiful and precious than before.
Sometimes your companion has to leave the train before you. This may leave you feeling very lonely. Don’t be tempted to jump off the train after them. This only causes a great deal of trouble, both for the officials of the railway company and for your fellow travellers. Instead, if you can, help your companion’s descent from the train to be as smooth as possible. If they were forced to leave the train without saying goodbye, you might spend rather a lot of time looking for them out of the window. You might eventually find another travelling companion. Remember that your first companion’s luggage will still be on the train and their seat is still reserved.
If you are the first to leave the train, remember to say goodbye properly. Your fellow travellers should also be there; they will help you get off the train and see that you haven’t forgotten anything. You will want to feel secure that your luggage has passed into safe hands and that your companion will not be alone for the rest of the journey.
Bon Voyage!
Today is my 47th Wedding anniversary. These days, long marriages don't just happen by virtue of simply living long enough. I think that it's a combination of love, knowing the rules and generally embracing the experience. And I think that it resembles a long journey; in fact, I wrote about this some years ago, and am reproducing it here.
In My Day
The Marriage Train
Getting married is like travelling on the Penzance-Aberdeen express
Preparation
You should buy your ticket in plenty of time and check the details carefully. Make sure that you have enough luggage packed. Don’t burden yourself with too much or you may not be able to get on. If you buy your ticket at the last minute you may not have time to pack and find yourself starting the journey with not enough to see you through. You might also find that you haven’t understood clearly the terms of your ticket.
The Ticket
These are the terms of your ticket:
1. You must complete the journey
2. The ticket is one-way only
3. The ticket is joint with one other holder
4. You may not break your journey
5. You may share your space on the train with an unlimited number of fellow travellers, provided that:
a. No more than the agreed space is taken up
b. They share your refreshment allowanceDeparture Times
Allow enough time to catch the train
If you allow too much time, you may be heartily bored by the time the train arrives and start your journey in the wrong frame of mind
If you rush onto the platform at the last minute you might have forgotten something or even jump on the wrong train.
The journey
You climb onto the train and settle into the best seat you can find. You wave good bye to your friends and family and see that your luggage is safely stowed. The view is lovely; you can see the moors and glimpses of the sea. It’s very exciting and you eagerly look out from one side to the other and can’t stop chattering to your companion about how lovely it all is.
Soon you get used to the motion of the train and you get out a book or listen to music on your personal stereo, occasionally talking to your companion or pointing out the more interesting views.
You stretch out your legs, only to find that they are doing the same. You may need to tuck your legs in from time to time and they will have to do the same for you.
Sometimes the train passes through tunnels. The lights in the compartment go dim and every noise is unpleasantly loud. You can hardly see your companion’s face. Before you know it the tunnel’s passed. Now, another one. You get used to these short tunnels and learn how to deal with them. When you go through the next one you are confident that you can cope. Just as you think the tunnel is going to end, it doesn’t. You begin to panic slightly, although you might not wish to show it. Eventually you flash out into the light again.
At Gloucester, the train stops. When it leaves again, to your horror, you realise that the train is going backwards! Should you ring the communication cord? Should you jump off the train? After a while you see that this has been necessary so that the train can get onto another set of rails in order to continue toward Aberdeen.
The motion of the train is very steady as it rushes on at 125mph. You fall asleep. Beware you don’t sleep for the rest of the journey or that you are always asleep when your companion is awake and vice versa. Your companion and fellow travellers may decide to leave the train, or you may reach your journey’s end without having noticed any of the exciting and beautiful things on the way.
Stations
The train will pass through stations. At many of these it won’t stop; you catch a glimpse of pretty, sleepy, wayside stations. All you will have time to say is, “How pretty, what was the name? I didn’t catch it?”
At others it will. It will be very tempting to get out at these stations and take a look around. After the steadiness of the journey, a change of pace may seem exciting. However, the terms of your ticket are that you may not break your journey at any point. If the temptation is very strong you may decide to get off anyway. You don’t mention it to the guard - they are likely to refuse. So you slip off, hoping that you can just nip back on again, unseen. What could go wrong? A good deal, believe me.
While you are having a refreshing cup of coffee the train may leave without you. All your luggage, your chosen travelling companion and fellow travellers are still on the train. You run after it, calling. But it’s gone, and when you return to your cup of coffee, it’s cold, or doesn’t taste so good, or the waitress has cleared it away.
You may decide to catch another train. To begin with it seems just as exciting as the first. But you’ve left so much luggage behind on the other train. Your new companion has a good deal of their own, plus a number of fellow-travellers whom you don’t know. They take up a good deal of space and resent you having the best seat, and you have no idea whether you will like each other better as the journey progresses.
Or you may nip back onto the train. But not, alas, unseen. Your travelling companion sees you and calls the guard. The guard draws your attention to the terms of the ticket and advises you that your action has invalidated it. You may be thrown off the train. If your travelling companion is willing, the company may concessionally allow you to continue, but you will be under surveillance from now on.
You might find that your companion had seen you get off and decided to find another companion. So, when you get back to your seat it’s occupied.
You might be lucky and slip back into your seat while your companion is sleeping. But you have had an experience without them. You would like to share it with them, but, if you do, they may call the guard. Also the taste of that coffee is still with you. So you find ways of expressing yourself by criticising the amenities of the train, the quality of the coffee or the slowness of the journey. This puzzles your companion whose pleasure in the journey is now diminished and who hesitates to tell you about the view in case you criticise that, too. They may give more attention to your fellow-travellers so that you feel left out.
Delays, Points & Derailments
During the journey there may be delays. The train mysteriously grinds to a halt. There is not a station in sight and a heavy silence descends. No explanation for the delay is given. You discuss this with your companion, but they tell you to be patient; we’ll soon get going again. Their composure infuriates you. You threaten to get off the train and walk. This is never wise. The train will start again and soon be speeding northwards.
When approaching a big junction, you will go over points. They are noisy and uncomfortable. The train slows down and you wonder if the bumping will ever stop. In fact, this is one of the things that may tempt you to get off at the next stop to have a look around. But, of course, once you’re through Birmingham New Street or Sheffield, the train will pick up speed and you’ll be congratulating yourself on having stayed put.
Occasionally, the train breaks down completely. It is shunted into a siding and you are told that you will be bussed to the nearest station. If this happens you will just have to make the best of it. You will not improve your chances of getting to your journey’s end by making a fuss.
The worst disaster that can happen is a derailment. This happens when there is something on the track, if one train hits another or the track is not properly laid. You will almost certainly suffer an injury and will have to leave your travelling companion. Allow anyone who is able to help through this time; you’re going to need them.
Fellow Travellers
You may remember that your ticket allows you an unlimited number of fellow travellers. However, you have to share your seat and refreshments with them. At the beginning of the journey, you and your companion luxuriously stretched out your legs and spread your luggage about as you wished. As each fellow traveller joins you, you have to contract your space a bit more. They are noisy and inclined for conversation, especially, it seems when you want to have a bit of a doze or talk to your companion. They are bad at managing their luggage too, and are always asking you to help them add or discard some or move it to another place. When you take time to listen to their conversation, though, you find that it’s very interesting and that each fellow-traveller has a specific charm. You laugh a lot and feel thoroughly woken up. In fact, if you choose to take no fellow travellers, you may find it hard to stay awake.
Beware of giving too much attention to one fellow traveller - the others may take offence or the one may start to take up too much room. On the other hand, don’t ignore them. If you do, when you get to Aberdeen, you may find that they left the train while you were asleep and didn’t even say goodbye.
As the journey progresses these travellers will want to get out at each station. As you know that they are not coming all the way with you, you will have to allow this. At first, each excursion will be made with either you or your companion. Soon they will be nipping out briefly at little wayside stops and halts. At some point they will get off the train to commence their own journeys. If all has gone well they will wish you a loving farewell and make sure that you are kept informed of progress.
Now you and your companion can stretch out again. The seats feel twice as big as when you started your journey. If the journey is going according to plan, you will both enjoy this very much and take a renewed interest in the scenery. Be sympathetic, though, if your companion takes a little time to adjust to the extra space.
Travelling without a ticket
Some people try to make the journey without a ticket. This may seem like a good idea at the time. You are not bound by any terms and conditions and can leave the train whenever you like. What you haven’t bargained for is that your companion can do the same. It’s no good complaining to the guard; as you haven’t a ticket there’s nothing they can do. They may feel sorry for you but will explain that the train is not bound to carry you and will put you off at the next stop.
Journey’s end
Eventually you approach your journey’s end. For some time the train has been slowing down; each sight of the mountains seems more beautiful and precious than before.
Sometimes your companion has to leave the train before you. This may leave you feeling very lonely. Don’t be tempted to jump off the train after them. This only causes a great deal of trouble, both for the officials of the railway company and for your fellow travellers. Instead, if you can, help your companion’s descent from the train to be as smooth as possible. If they were forced to leave the train without saying goodbye, you might spend rather a lot of time looking for them out of the window. You might eventually find another travelling companion. Remember that your first companion’s luggage will still be on the train and their seat is still reserved.
If you are the first to leave the train, remember to say goodbye properly. Your fellow travellers should also be there; they will help you get off the train and see that you haven’t forgotten anything. You will want to feel secure that your luggage has passed into safe hands and that your companion will not be alone for the rest of the journey.
Bon Voyage!
Monday, May 28, 2018
Going for the Burn
Today
We've had a run of warm and sticky weather lately with some sudden downpours. Here on the Mendips that has resulted in some morning mists which the sun takes a while to burn off.
In My Day
Back in 1993, Paul and I and an assortment of Levetts decided to take a holiday in Ireland. We chose a cottage just outside the Connemara town of Oughterard. That holiday supplies many tales which I feel sure I'll explore in this blog. Every morning started out dull and misty and we would wonder what we could do to get through the day. But, by about midday, the sun would have burnt through, giving us wonderful weather. And the twilights were so long that we still had many hours in which to do things.
On one occasion, Paul and I decided that we would like to visit Innishmore. Off we set in the gloomy morning to catch the ferry from Rossaveal. This necessitated a lengthy drive along pot-holed and rutty roads, passing ruinous farms where raggedy children, dogs and donkeys would stand in the road as though they'd never seen a car before.
Rossaveal is a tiny run-down town on the Galway coast from which ferries to the Aran islands (mostly Innishmore) ran regularly. Having driven all this way we decided to go through with it, despite the dull overcast skies, and climbed on board. As we crossed the water the sun began to break through and, by the time we'd landed, there was glorious sunshine.
There are no cars, to speak of, on Aran and we thought that the thing to do would be to hire bikes to explore. This we duly did, paying about £10.00 for the hire and £2.00 for the deposit. We couldn't see the logic of such a small deposit at the time, but shrugged and got on with our day.
The land on Aran is split into smallholdings each of which roughly contains some rocky soil, some fertile and a stretch of beach from which there is a valuable harvest of Carrageen moss seaweed. Cattle roamed freely. The lanes were all between high limestone walls and we pedalled happily along. The skies were blue, the fields were green and the beaches like whipped cream. "I'm going down to the beach", I called out to Paul. Did I just say that cattle roamed freely? Just as my wheel touched the sand, there was a roar and a cow turned to chase me away. I cycled madly back up the lane, the cow gaining on me, wondering how I could get myself and bike over the high walls before I was gored. Paul, with gales of laughter, caught the moment on camera and I made it to a gate as the creature thundered past.
But we had a wonderful day, full of sunshine and laughter, and finally got back to the harbour in comfortable time for the ferry. We returned our bikes and received our risible deposits back. As we sat in the sunshine having a Guinness we suddenly realised the wisdom of the deposit. You couldn't steal the bikes - there's no way to get them off the Island, but plenty of people simply found them too much like hard work and abandoned them. The bike company had a little flat-bed truck which they used to go and pick up the bikes, the deposits paying for that nicely!
We finally arrived back at the cottage, so pleased that we'd trusted the sun's ability to burn through. Paul, who'd neglected the factor 50, was less pleased with its ability to burn through his thighs, but, hey-ho! it was worth it it.
We've had a run of warm and sticky weather lately with some sudden downpours. Here on the Mendips that has resulted in some morning mists which the sun takes a while to burn off.
In My Day
Back in 1993, Paul and I and an assortment of Levetts decided to take a holiday in Ireland. We chose a cottage just outside the Connemara town of Oughterard. That holiday supplies many tales which I feel sure I'll explore in this blog. Every morning started out dull and misty and we would wonder what we could do to get through the day. But, by about midday, the sun would have burnt through, giving us wonderful weather. And the twilights were so long that we still had many hours in which to do things.
On one occasion, Paul and I decided that we would like to visit Innishmore. Off we set in the gloomy morning to catch the ferry from Rossaveal. This necessitated a lengthy drive along pot-holed and rutty roads, passing ruinous farms where raggedy children, dogs and donkeys would stand in the road as though they'd never seen a car before.
Rossaveal is a tiny run-down town on the Galway coast from which ferries to the Aran islands (mostly Innishmore) ran regularly. Having driven all this way we decided to go through with it, despite the dull overcast skies, and climbed on board. As we crossed the water the sun began to break through and, by the time we'd landed, there was glorious sunshine.
There are no cars, to speak of, on Aran and we thought that the thing to do would be to hire bikes to explore. This we duly did, paying about £10.00 for the hire and £2.00 for the deposit. We couldn't see the logic of such a small deposit at the time, but shrugged and got on with our day.
The land on Aran is split into smallholdings each of which roughly contains some rocky soil, some fertile and a stretch of beach from which there is a valuable harvest of Carrageen moss seaweed. Cattle roamed freely. The lanes were all between high limestone walls and we pedalled happily along. The skies were blue, the fields were green and the beaches like whipped cream. "I'm going down to the beach", I called out to Paul. Did I just say that cattle roamed freely? Just as my wheel touched the sand, there was a roar and a cow turned to chase me away. I cycled madly back up the lane, the cow gaining on me, wondering how I could get myself and bike over the high walls before I was gored. Paul, with gales of laughter, caught the moment on camera and I made it to a gate as the creature thundered past.But we had a wonderful day, full of sunshine and laughter, and finally got back to the harbour in comfortable time for the ferry. We returned our bikes and received our risible deposits back. As we sat in the sunshine having a Guinness we suddenly realised the wisdom of the deposit. You couldn't steal the bikes - there's no way to get them off the Island, but plenty of people simply found them too much like hard work and abandoned them. The bike company had a little flat-bed truck which they used to go and pick up the bikes, the deposits paying for that nicely!
We finally arrived back at the cottage, so pleased that we'd trusted the sun's ability to burn through. Paul, who'd neglected the factor 50, was less pleased with its ability to burn through his thighs, but, hey-ho! it was worth it it.
Tuesday, May 01, 2018
Spiral
Today
Our new little pet, Lucy th
e Bichon Frise, has settled in well. With a rescue dog, history is often unknown, but what we do know is that her grooming was left so long neglected that she was shaved. Her curls are now growing back beautifully. I met another Bichon in the village who has the full monty, so to speak, with a full coat of five-inch long spiral curls.
I plan to let Lucy's grow that long before deciding on the right trim for her.
"I remember when the spiral perm was fashionable for humans" I said to the dog's owner
In My Day
The spiral perm fashion came in in about 1987 or so. How Lizzie longed for this look! It was terrifyingly expensive and, over a long period, she scraped up money from her part-time jobs until she had enough. She trotted off to a salon in Bath and they put her hair through the complicated processes involved. When all was done they told her not to touch the hair for twenty-four hours and then, voila! she would have her dream look.
The results were more like a nightmare. Her hair looked woolly, rather than in silky spirals and when Lizzie awoke in the morning, she found large chunks of it remaining on the pillow. This continued for a few weeks. We spoke to the salon and all they would offer was a conditioning treatment, which was hardly going to help.
We planned to take action but well-meaning interference by a relative who whisked Lizzie off to her hairdresser to trim and salvage meant that we didn't really have the evidence that we wanted, except a basket of dead hair.
It was all pretty distressing, especially for a teenager when it's so important to look and feel good. It took quite a long time for her hair to regain its natural silky waviness. And Lizzie took a long time to trust hairdressers in general after that.
Since Lucy's spiral perm is entirely natural I hope we won't go through any trauma with her.
Our new little pet, Lucy th
e Bichon Frise, has settled in well. With a rescue dog, history is often unknown, but what we do know is that her grooming was left so long neglected that she was shaved. Her curls are now growing back beautifully. I met another Bichon in the village who has the full monty, so to speak, with a full coat of five-inch long spiral curls.I plan to let Lucy's grow that long before deciding on the right trim for her.
In My Day
The spiral perm fashion came in in about 1987 or so. How Lizzie longed for this look! It was terrifyingly expensive and, over a long period, she scraped up money from her part-time jobs until she had enough. She trotted off to a salon in Bath and they put her hair through the complicated processes involved. When all was done they told her not to touch the hair for twenty-four hours and then, voila! she would have her dream look.
The results were more like a nightmare. Her hair looked woolly, rather than in silky spirals and when Lizzie awoke in the morning, she found large chunks of it remaining on the pillow. This continued for a few weeks. We spoke to the salon and all they would offer was a conditioning treatment, which was hardly going to help.
We planned to take action but well-meaning interference by a relative who whisked Lizzie off to her hairdresser to trim and salvage meant that we didn't really have the evidence that we wanted, except a basket of dead hair.
It was all pretty distressing, especially for a teenager when it's so important to look and feel good. It took quite a long time for her hair to regain its natural silky waviness. And Lizzie took a long time to trust hairdressers in general after that.
Since Lucy's spiral perm is entirely natural I hope we won't go through any trauma with her.
Saturday, April 07, 2018
Sticky
Today
I am very much looking forward to our next trip to Spain. Becky sent me a message: "We can visit the museum of natural sciences " she enthused. Among other things, they have a stick insect tank.
In My Day
When I worked for the Tax Office, back in 1983 or so, one of my colleagues told me that his brother was involved in the development of Moon craft. He said that they had studied stick insects and how they deal with uneven terrain. I assume he wasn't having a bubble, but what was true was that he had inherited a lot of stick insects.
"Perfect!" I thought "Lizzie would love a couple of stick insects!" We bought a fish tank and two stick insects were duly delivered. It seemed that they thrived on brambles and we had much enjoyments watching these strange creatures. Every now and then we would clean out the tank.
On one occasion, cleaning out the tank collided with making tea. Lizzie was absorbed in the watching an insect walk on her arm at the same moment as a cup of tea appeared. The stick insect nosed-dived into the hot tea. I dashed the tea into the sink as fast as I could but I think that the insect was scalded to death. Lizzie was distraught and, when the other one dies of natural causes, we put the tank away as a monument to failed endeavour.
Some months later, when I had to find a new home for the tank, I found a couple of baby stick insects, whose fate I cannot now recall.
Lizzie never kept stick insects again and refused to drink from the mug, which I rather insensitively called "The Stick Mug".
But Lizzie does now have a "no kill" policy for all insects other than those that are trying to eat or kill her, so I guess the stick insect didn't entirely die in vain.
I am very much looking forward to our next trip to Spain. Becky sent me a message: "We can visit the museum of natural sciences " she enthused. Among other things, they have a stick insect tank.
In My Day
When I worked for the Tax Office, back in 1983 or so, one of my colleagues told me that his brother was involved in the development of Moon craft. He said that they had studied stick insects and how they deal with uneven terrain. I assume he wasn't having a bubble, but what was true was that he had inherited a lot of stick insects.
"Perfect!" I thought "Lizzie would love a couple of stick insects!" We bought a fish tank and two stick insects were duly delivered. It seemed that they thrived on brambles and we had much enjoyments watching these strange creatures. Every now and then we would clean out the tank.
On one occasion, cleaning out the tank collided with making tea. Lizzie was absorbed in the watching an insect walk on her arm at the same moment as a cup of tea appeared. The stick insect nosed-dived into the hot tea. I dashed the tea into the sink as fast as I could but I think that the insect was scalded to death. Lizzie was distraught and, when the other one dies of natural causes, we put the tank away as a monument to failed endeavour.
Some months later, when I had to find a new home for the tank, I found a couple of baby stick insects, whose fate I cannot now recall.
Lizzie never kept stick insects again and refused to drink from the mug, which I rather insensitively called "The Stick Mug".
But Lizzie does now have a "no kill" policy for all insects other than those that are trying to eat or kill her, so I guess the stick insect didn't entirely die in vain.
Tuesday, March 13, 2018
Desert Rats
Today
My
Canadian nephew is enjoying his travels through Western USA in his trusty
"Airstream" camper.
"We
are often puzzled with ourselves. Why do we love the desert so? " he
posted on his latest update.
I
suppose the first thing you have to do is define desert. The dictionary defines
it as a "waterless, desolate area of land with little or no vegetation,
typically one covered with sand."
I
also researched the average rainfall in the Mojave desert, the driest in North
America, and it's typically less that 330mm PA, as opposed to London's 580 mm.
By contrast, the Nazca Desert in Peru has an average rainfall of 4mm PA.
In My Day
I have
visited two deserts in my travels. One was the region of Mendoza in Argentina.
This huddles under the rainshadow of the Andes and it looks like a very fertile
place. I found that, over the past 7 centuries or so, people have slowly been
planting this desert
so that it now supports a very active wine industry and can grow a range of
crops and support a reasonable population. It struck me as a very lovely
place.
It does all this on 234mm of rainfall PA.
The other desert was a very different matter.
This was the Nazca desert in Peru. The West coast of Peru has virtually no
rainfall and the Nazca desert is the second driest in the world, with 4mm of
rain PA
We
drove along the Pan American highway for what seemed to be endless miles,
through an endless dirty ochre landscape. Along the roadside were little woven
reed roofless huts in which people attempted to live.
The only water is underground, from the melting snows on the Andes. The Nazca people actually learnt how to bring this water under the desert to where they needed it, and then to store it.
Again, I found myself full of
awe for the people who managed, not just to survive in this horrible place, but
to have a complex society and to have drawn the wonderful "lines" in
the gravel which survive to this day.
But I do have to say that I
found this place inexpressibly dreary; it was monochrome, there's almost
weather as such, no winds or storms. No grandeur. The only time there is
water is in the unpredictable "El Nino" years when tsunamis swamp the coastal desert.
So loving or loathing the desert
all really goes back to what kind of desert you're in and, maybe, how tamed and
accessible it is.
Thursday, March 01, 2018
Made to Measure
Today
Much of my sewing activity focuses on clothes for children or for family members. Recently, though, I've been wanting to make some clothes for myself.
It's much harder, in that you have to do the measuring and fitting on yourself, which is awkward at the best of times and sometimes impossible.
In My Day
When I was at college, at Worthing and Eastbourne, we were all involved in making clothes. We'd all received the same training about how and where to measure, how to fit and adjust.
So when anyone wanted to make something, there was always someone on hand to take the vital measurements. When you are also going to make the pattern from scratch there are a lot of them, and it's impossible to measure your own back of neck to waist length or back shoulder width. And even things like waist to ankle or inside leg are likely to be unreliable when you are squinting at a tape measure dangling down your leg.
Once you'd got to the trying on stage, there was another expert who could make the adjustments while you stood as straight and still as you could, nipping and tucking seams at the side and back. They could easily make sure that the shoulder seams were sitting straight and that the trousers didn't bulge around your bottom.
One solution to the problem is the adjustable dress form. The idea is that you can enlarge or shrink it to replicate your own shape. Mamma and Daddy bought me one, made out of cardboard. This had two disadvantages. Firstly, when you made an adjustment to, say, the bust, there were always angles where the pieces of paper overlapped, so it wasn't exactly realistic. Secondly, it was unwilling to accept pins, so it was hard to pin fabric in place. I don't think I used it much, preferring to rely on my colleagues. I think I managed to train Mamma how to take measurements and adjust.
The lady pictured is very like Mavis who lives in my sewing room and she's certainly useful for checking shoulder seams and the like. But I don't think that her figure will ever be quite like mine and I just have to hope that the trousers I'm making will be the business.
Maybe I'll have to teach Paul the art of measuring and fitting.
Much of my sewing activity focuses on clothes for children or for family members. Recently, though, I've been wanting to make some clothes for myself.
It's much harder, in that you have to do the measuring and fitting on yourself, which is awkward at the best of times and sometimes impossible.
In My Day
When I was at college, at Worthing and Eastbourne, we were all involved in making clothes. We'd all received the same training about how and where to measure, how to fit and adjust. So when anyone wanted to make something, there was always someone on hand to take the vital measurements. When you are also going to make the pattern from scratch there are a lot of them, and it's impossible to measure your own back of neck to waist length or back shoulder width. And even things like waist to ankle or inside leg are likely to be unreliable when you are squinting at a tape measure dangling down your leg.
Once you'd got to the trying on stage, there was another expert who could make the adjustments while you stood as straight and still as you could, nipping and tucking seams at the side and back. They could easily make sure that the shoulder seams were sitting straight and that the trousers didn't bulge around your bottom.
One solution to the problem is the adjustable dress form. The idea is that you can enlarge or shrink it to replicate your own shape. Mamma and Daddy bought me one, made out of cardboard. This had two disadvantages. Firstly, when you made an adjustment to, say, the bust, there were always angles where the pieces of paper overlapped, so it wasn't exactly realistic. Secondly, it was unwilling to accept pins, so it was hard to pin fabric in place. I don't think I used it much, preferring to rely on my colleagues. I think I managed to train Mamma how to take measurements and adjust.
The lady pictured is very like Mavis who lives in my sewing room and she's certainly useful for checking shoulder seams and the like. But I don't think that her figure will ever be quite like mine and I just have to hope that the trousers I'm making will be the business.
Maybe I'll have to teach Paul the art of measuring and fitting.
Monday, February 12, 2018
In the Doghouse
Today
My niece posted a picture a couple of days ago, showing her Cockerpoo sticking her nose through the newly installed catflap. She commented that perhaps the dog thought it was a window just for her.
In My Day
Eventually, we outgrew the house at Mead Close and decided to turn the garage into a kitchen. This left us with the problem of a place for the dog to sleep. Suddenly we had a "lightbulb" moment. A kennel!
We went to the DIY and bought four fencing panels and some corrugated plastic sheeting. Then to the petshop where we bought a dogflap of a suitable size. At home we found an old pallet and an offcut of vinyl flooring.
Paul set to work and constructed a bijou residence. The pallet floor, covered with underlay, kept it clear of damp. The fence panels made the walls, one of which entirely hinged outwards, like a dolls' house. The dogflap was inserted into the front panels and a pitched roof of corrugated plastic was added. Perfect! A ventilated home with natural lighting and easy access.
We popped the dog bed in. When the evening meal came round we put Cas's food into the kennel and he eagerly followed through the dogflap. The water bowl we left outside because the dog walked into it on a regular basis and we didn't want the inside of the kennel to get wet. We left Cas to it and went indoors.
In the morning I went out to greet the dog and give him his breakfast. He was whining and whimpering inside the kennel. "Well come on, Cas" I called "I've your breakfast here"! He carried on whimpering. The silly mutt had not worked out that the flap worked both ways, so had spent the entire night stuck inside. He was desperate for a drink of water and a pee.
I released him and commenced on dogflap training. It took him over a week to figure it out - cats understand the principle in moments - after which he was very happy in his little house and often asked to go out to it. He wasn't so keen when the cats chose to join him, as they managed to take up the entire bed while he hunched in a corner!
So maybe the solution, Helena, is a personal house for your Cockerpoo. Just be prepared for the person-hours spent on training!
My niece posted a picture a couple of days ago, showing her Cockerpoo sticking her nose through the newly installed catflap. She commented that perhaps the dog thought it was a window just for her.
In My Day
Eventually, we outgrew the house at Mead Close and decided to turn the garage into a kitchen. This left us with the problem of a place for the dog to sleep. Suddenly we had a "lightbulb" moment. A kennel!
We went to the DIY and bought four fencing panels and some corrugated plastic sheeting. Then to the petshop where we bought a dogflap of a suitable size. At home we found an old pallet and an offcut of vinyl flooring.
Paul set to work and constructed a bijou residence. The pallet floor, covered with underlay, kept it clear of damp. The fence panels made the walls, one of which entirely hinged outwards, like a dolls' house. The dogflap was inserted into the front panels and a pitched roof of corrugated plastic was added. Perfect! A ventilated home with natural lighting and easy access.
We popped the dog bed in. When the evening meal came round we put Cas's food into the kennel and he eagerly followed through the dogflap. The water bowl we left outside because the dog walked into it on a regular basis and we didn't want the inside of the kennel to get wet. We left Cas to it and went indoors.
In the morning I went out to greet the dog and give him his breakfast. He was whining and whimpering inside the kennel. "Well come on, Cas" I called "I've your breakfast here"! He carried on whimpering. The silly mutt had not worked out that the flap worked both ways, so had spent the entire night stuck inside. He was desperate for a drink of water and a pee.
I released him and commenced on dogflap training. It took him over a week to figure it out - cats understand the principle in moments - after which he was very happy in his little house and often asked to go out to it. He wasn't so keen when the cats chose to join him, as they managed to take up the entire bed while he hunched in a corner!
So maybe the solution, Helena, is a personal house for your Cockerpoo. Just be prepared for the person-hours spent on training!
Monday, February 05, 2018
Tooled Up
Today
This morning, while Paul tested the mudguard lights on the model radio-controlled truck he is making, I talked about some modifications I want to make to my workspace to give me easier access to things like ribbons and spools of thread.
"You know", I said "some of the people we know will have fully stocked tool, hobby, craft and sewing kits while others are hard put to it to produce a needle or screwdriver."
In My Day
Mamma and Daddy were definitely of the former variety. While Daddy didn't do any crafts, as such, he did carry out much of the maintenance and repair work at 4BH and his other properties. At the foot of the basement stairs, and partly tucked under them, was his tool cupboard. This sported a dazzling array of paintbrushes, old cans of paint, hammers, screwdrivers, saws of every type, planes, sandpaper and tins and boxes of nails and screws. He had a blowtorch, fuse wire, and pieces and offcuts of metal and wood. He put up wallpaper using a paste made out of plain flour and water. He had trestle tables for laying out the paper and bottles of turps and meths (I rather liked meths beautiful shade of mauve which, I later learnt, was added to put alcoholics off drinking it). In the garage would be sand and cement used for a whole range of garden improvements and repairs.
In the living room was his desk which housed a Remington typewriter and was a treasure house of paper, card, paperclips, pencils, rubbers, inks, rulers, rubber bands and other treasures. I think we children raided this fairly freely.
Mamma had a sewing machine, a sewing box full of threads, buttons and other notions. She had knitting needles and balls of wool as well as fabric scraps and other bits.
Her kitchen, apart from the usual saucepans, had various mincers and graters, cake and baking tins of every shape and size, cake icing equipment, biscuit cutters, sieves and colanders. And there was a fully stocked larder.
All this suggests a very busy and creative life, and I personally love to look at and use my well-stocked workspace and kitchen. How are you ever to replace a button if the only needle you have resembles a rusty poker and the only thread you have came out of a free sewing kit from a hotel, or hang up a picture if you can't lay your hands on a tack hammer and picture hook?
This morning, while Paul tested the mudguard lights on the model radio-controlled truck he is making, I talked about some modifications I want to make to my workspace to give me easier access to things like ribbons and spools of thread.
"You know", I said "some of the people we know will have fully stocked tool, hobby, craft and sewing kits while others are hard put to it to produce a needle or screwdriver."
In My Day
Mamma and Daddy were definitely of the former variety. While Daddy didn't do any crafts, as such, he did carry out much of the maintenance and repair work at 4BH and his other properties. At the foot of the basement stairs, and partly tucked under them, was his tool cupboard. This sported a dazzling array of paintbrushes, old cans of paint, hammers, screwdrivers, saws of every type, planes, sandpaper and tins and boxes of nails and screws. He had a blowtorch, fuse wire, and pieces and offcuts of metal and wood. He put up wallpaper using a paste made out of plain flour and water. He had trestle tables for laying out the paper and bottles of turps and meths (I rather liked meths beautiful shade of mauve which, I later learnt, was added to put alcoholics off drinking it). In the garage would be sand and cement used for a whole range of garden improvements and repairs.
In the living room was his desk which housed a Remington typewriter and was a treasure house of paper, card, paperclips, pencils, rubbers, inks, rulers, rubber bands and other treasures. I think we children raided this fairly freely.Mamma had a sewing machine, a sewing box full of threads, buttons and other notions. She had knitting needles and balls of wool as well as fabric scraps and other bits.
Her kitchen, apart from the usual saucepans, had various mincers and graters, cake and baking tins of every shape and size, cake icing equipment, biscuit cutters, sieves and colanders. And there was a fully stocked larder.
All this suggests a very busy and creative life, and I personally love to look at and use my well-stocked workspace and kitchen. How are you ever to replace a button if the only needle you have resembles a rusty poker and the only thread you have came out of a free sewing kit from a hotel, or hang up a picture if you can't lay your hands on a tack hammer and picture hook?
Friday, December 08, 2017
Splutter
Today
It's that time of year again and I like to start the day with a few carols. Rutter's "Shepherd's Pipe Carol" (AKA "Shepherd's Pie Carol") came on. It's very lighthearted, maybe too lighthearted.
In My Day
It's 2005 and it's the Cantilena Christmas concert. We were performing in Somerton Parish church. Beautiful location and I managed to persuade Paul and the girls to come. We had a beautiful Christmas miscellany planned, including Vaughan Williams' "Fantasia on Christmas Carols" and Finzi's Magical "Et in Terra Pax".
I don't know what possessed the music director to stick in the Rutter; maybe he needed a filler and thought it would do.
The church filled up. Paul and the girls found prime seats at the front and off we went. All went very well until we started the Rutter. I noticed the girls begin to nudge each other and start to giggle. Soon the giggling went out of control. Becky turned her face away, but her shaking shoulder were still visible.
Lizzie was less well placed, and anyway, Lizzie's is very good at laughing. While she tried to suppress the giggles, she spluttered, snorted and began to turn an interesting shade of red. The choir continued to sing, slightly bemused by this commotion and even Paul began to chuckle.
Thankfully, the concert came to an end before there were any casualties. I spoke to the girls about the event and they told me that the little jingling tune that starts the Rutter had reminded them of the tune for "Playbus" a children's TV show they remembered. And once they'd started they couldn't stop.
Ah well, Christmas is supposed to be a time of merriment, but is it necessary to splutter?
It's that time of year again and I like to start the day with a few carols. Rutter's "Shepherd's Pipe Carol" (AKA "Shepherd's Pie Carol") came on. It's very lighthearted, maybe too lighthearted.
In My Day
I don't know what possessed the music director to stick in the Rutter; maybe he needed a filler and thought it would do.
The church filled up. Paul and the girls found prime seats at the front and off we went. All went very well until we started the Rutter. I noticed the girls begin to nudge each other and start to giggle. Soon the giggling went out of control. Becky turned her face away, but her shaking shoulder were still visible.
Lizzie was less well placed, and anyway, Lizzie's is very good at laughing. While she tried to suppress the giggles, she spluttered, snorted and began to turn an interesting shade of red. The choir continued to sing, slightly bemused by this commotion and even Paul began to chuckle.Thankfully, the concert came to an end before there were any casualties. I spoke to the girls about the event and they told me that the little jingling tune that starts the Rutter had reminded them of the tune for "Playbus" a children's TV show they remembered. And once they'd started they couldn't stop.
Ah well, Christmas is supposed to be a time of merriment, but is it necessary to splutter?
Thursday, November 30, 2017
Sensitive Issue
Today
Today, following a chat with my daughter I found myself reading articles about "Throwback Sexism" which encompassed stories about prestigious awards refused because of the demeaning ceremonies surrounding them, is Hello Kitty throwback sexist? and the ongoing debate about Bunny Girls.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-5124323/University-Bradford-rejects-award-sexist-ceremony.html?ITO=1490
One of the problems about protesting is that you can be accused of having no sense of humour: "It's just a bit of harmless fun", or being over-sensitive.
In My Day
One of my colleagues at the Tax Office in Lewes back in about 1976 was a man called Geoff Bridger. He was a small, aggressively macho man with a penchant for shooting small animals. He was an enthusiastic member of the TA and would occasionally accidentally-on-purpose find that he had bullets in his pocket.
One year in January he pranced into the office with a full-on naked female "girlie" calendar and hung it on the wall behind his desk. Most of the women didn't find it too funny, but few had the temerity to complain to management, fearing that they would be labelled over-sensitive and easily offended. Those that did found that management had no will to intervene. So the nasty object stayed on the wall.
In those days I was a regular reader of Cosmopolitan and they often featured male naked centrefolds, usually of well-known celebrities with hot bodies. I discovered that they were also doing a male nude calendar that year. I ordered this and hung it on the wall behind my desk. Cue a massive protest by the male staff, led by Geoff. I was asked to remove the item, which I agreed to do if the opposite number was also removed, which it was. I wasn't in the slightest bit interested in the male nudes, but I'd made my point, none too subtly. Interestingly, nobody seemed to suggest that the men were being over-sensitive or lacking a sense of humour.
What still puzzles me is why anyone would want to be served by women dressed as rodents, as well as why any right-minded woman would agree to dress up as one.
Today, following a chat with my daughter I found myself reading articles about "Throwback Sexism" which encompassed stories about prestigious awards refused because of the demeaning ceremonies surrounding them, is Hello Kitty throwback sexist? and the ongoing debate about Bunny Girls.http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-5124323/University-Bradford-rejects-award-sexist-ceremony.html?ITO=1490
One of the problems about protesting is that you can be accused of having no sense of humour: "It's just a bit of harmless fun", or being over-sensitive.
In My Day
One of my colleagues at the Tax Office in Lewes back in about 1976 was a man called Geoff Bridger. He was a small, aggressively macho man with a penchant for shooting small animals. He was an enthusiastic member of the TA and would occasionally accidentally-on-purpose find that he had bullets in his pocket.
One year in January he pranced into the office with a full-on naked female "girlie" calendar and hung it on the wall behind his desk. Most of the women didn't find it too funny, but few had the temerity to complain to management, fearing that they would be labelled over-sensitive and easily offended. Those that did found that management had no will to intervene. So the nasty object stayed on the wall.
In those days I was a regular reader of Cosmopolitan and they often featured male naked centrefolds, usually of well-known celebrities with hot bodies. I discovered that they were also doing a male nude calendar that year. I ordered this and hung it on the wall behind my desk. Cue a massive protest by the male staff, led by Geoff. I was asked to remove the item, which I agreed to do if the opposite number was also removed, which it was. I wasn't in the slightest bit interested in the male nudes, but I'd made my point, none too subtly. Interestingly, nobody seemed to suggest that the men were being over-sensitive or lacking a sense of humour.
What still puzzles me is why anyone would want to be served by women dressed as rodents, as well as why any right-minded woman would agree to dress up as one.
Saturday, November 11, 2017
Saving a Life
Today
A short while ago my niece posted a link to the blood transfusion website. "Save Lives!" it announced.
https://www.blood.co.uk/
In My Day
Probably in common with many people, I once thought that donated blood was rushed to trauma sites and hospitals to be pumped into accident and war victims to save their lives in a dramatic way. My mother-in-law used to tell tales of giving blood during the war when every ounce counted. And I was familiar with Hancock's Blood Donor sketch:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i9nCqSYeAVY
But I don't think I really applied any of this to myself. That was until I was working for the Inland Revenue at Barrington Road in Worthing. This was a large office complex with about 2000 employees. So the blood transfusion people came to us. Along with my colleagues, I signed up and trotted along. After all, as well as doing a Good Thing, I was having half an hour off work with a cuppa thrown in.
Alas! They turned me down as this was less than six months after Becky was born and I apparently needed all my strength.
But I went the next time and gave my fifteen fluid ounces with no ill-effects. I discovered that my blood is O+, so I'm not quite a universal donor, although any + blood-types can have my blood. I also discovered that full blood doesn't keep very well and much of the donated blood is centrifuged to give plasma which does keep and is used for many things.
After that I went many times and became quite an old-hand. On one occasion I was specially called by the service and asked if I would participate is a training programme. I went to the Cavendish Hotel in Eastbourne and was used as a guinea-pig by trainee technicians. What gave them the most difficulty was doing the prick test. Once they'd painfully jabbed my thumb, they would then stare at the drop until it coagulated and couldn't been used, so it had to be done again, and again...
I did have a better quality of biscuit to go with my tea, though.
Another time the whole family went down to the council chamber in Shepton Mallet where the donation service had been set up. The technician made a mess of removing Lizzie's tube and her vital red fluid gushed out onto the nice carpet of the council chamber. There was a moment's horrified gawping before a doctor galloped up and sealed the wound.
Nowadays, they do, indeed, give you a little medal after so many donations and "I saved a life" stickers. But nobody goes for those reasons and we proudly give our blood with no thought of a reward.
Ah, well! I'm too old these days, needing once again, it seems, to keep up my strength. I don't know how many lives I've saved, but I'll know who to thank should I ever need a top-up.
A short while ago my niece posted a link to the blood transfusion website. "Save Lives!" it announced.
https://www.blood.co.uk/
In My Day
Probably in common with many people, I once thought that donated blood was rushed to trauma sites and hospitals to be pumped into accident and war victims to save their lives in a dramatic way. My mother-in-law used to tell tales of giving blood during the war when every ounce counted. And I was familiar with Hancock's Blood Donor sketch:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i9nCqSYeAVY
But I don't think I really applied any of this to myself. That was until I was working for the Inland Revenue at Barrington Road in Worthing. This was a large office complex with about 2000 employees. So the blood transfusion people came to us. Along with my colleagues, I signed up and trotted along. After all, as well as doing a Good Thing, I was having half an hour off work with a cuppa thrown in.
Alas! They turned me down as this was less than six months after Becky was born and I apparently needed all my strength.
But I went the next time and gave my fifteen fluid ounces with no ill-effects. I discovered that my blood is O+, so I'm not quite a universal donor, although any + blood-types can have my blood. I also discovered that full blood doesn't keep very well and much of the donated blood is centrifuged to give plasma which does keep and is used for many things.
After that I went many times and became quite an old-hand. On one occasion I was specially called by the service and asked if I would participate is a training programme. I went to the Cavendish Hotel in Eastbourne and was used as a guinea-pig by trainee technicians. What gave them the most difficulty was doing the prick test. Once they'd painfully jabbed my thumb, they would then stare at the drop until it coagulated and couldn't been used, so it had to be done again, and again...
I did have a better quality of biscuit to go with my tea, though.
Another time the whole family went down to the council chamber in Shepton Mallet where the donation service had been set up. The technician made a mess of removing Lizzie's tube and her vital red fluid gushed out onto the nice carpet of the council chamber. There was a moment's horrified gawping before a doctor galloped up and sealed the wound.
Nowadays, they do, indeed, give you a little medal after so many donations and "I saved a life" stickers. But nobody goes for those reasons and we proudly give our blood with no thought of a reward.
Ah, well! I'm too old these days, needing once again, it seems, to keep up my strength. I don't know how many lives I've saved, but I'll know who to thank should I ever need a top-up.
Tuesday, August 15, 2017
Hare-raising
Today
I was browsing a Facebook page called "Girls that make stuff" and someone was displaying some beautiful images burnt into slices of wood. She asked for suggestions as to creatures that she could feature and I suggested a hare.
After all, you hardly ever see a real hare these days.
In My Day
I joined Cantilena Choir in 1988. When the day came for our Spring concert I found that the rehearsal time was so close to the performance start that I would not be able to get home, fed and changed and back in time.
A fellow soprano offered me a way out. "I live close by; come and have supper with us and you can change in my bedroom. I was very grateful for this and she took me to her rather beautiful home near Street.
Supper was served in the hall which was really a whole room in itself. As I sat down I looked about the room. The walls were decorated, not with paintings, hangings or photographs, but little plaques, each of which had a hare's foot mounted on it. I gazed at these grisly trophies in horror. I kept my eyes averted and tried to attack my food with some enthusiasm. .
However, there was no averting them from my colleague's husband who just then walked in the front door. He was in full regalia: a black tail coat. white breeches, shirt and cravat and black boots. Clearly he was a master of beagling, just come home from hunting. I found excuses to avoid future invitations.
I find it strange to think that there are people walking around for whom this is a perfectly normal thing to do.
It's no wonder that these beautiful creatures are in decline, although Becky tells me she saw one in Essex the other week.
I was browsing a Facebook page called "Girls that make stuff" and someone was displaying some beautiful images burnt into slices of wood. She asked for suggestions as to creatures that she could feature and I suggested a hare.
After all, you hardly ever see a real hare these days.
In My Day
I joined Cantilena Choir in 1988. When the day came for our Spring concert I found that the rehearsal time was so close to the performance start that I would not be able to get home, fed and changed and back in time.
A fellow soprano offered me a way out. "I live close by; come and have supper with us and you can change in my bedroom. I was very grateful for this and she took me to her rather beautiful home near Street.
Supper was served in the hall which was really a whole room in itself. As I sat down I looked about the room. The walls were decorated, not with paintings, hangings or photographs, but little plaques, each of which had a hare's foot mounted on it. I gazed at these grisly trophies in horror. I kept my eyes averted and tried to attack my food with some enthusiasm. .However, there was no averting them from my colleague's husband who just then walked in the front door. He was in full regalia: a black tail coat. white breeches, shirt and cravat and black boots. Clearly he was a master of beagling, just come home from hunting. I found excuses to avoid future invitations.
I find it strange to think that there are people walking around for whom this is a perfectly normal thing to do.
Sunday, July 30, 2017
Kitties Galore
Today
I guess it had to happen. Becky and Richard caved in (without much resistance, I'm sure) to Carmen's longing for a pet. To achieve this they went to a local rescue centre in L'Eliana. "Battersea, it was not", Becky told me. "There was a room full of adults and another full of kittens." From this melee they chose Rosie and Mac an unrelated pair of four-month olds who seem to be rather cute.
In my day
After my cats Agamemnon and Amelia died in 1993, we were told of some kittens needing new homes. They were at a ramshacke farm cottage near Priddy. The Kittens were in an undecorated and unfurnished room with a board fixed across the door to keep them from straying. The mother cats - there were three, a mother and daughters - hopped across it at will, as did the farm dogs who jumped in to eat the cat food.
In this room there were fifteen kittens, aged between four and eight weeks old, all rolling about and playing. There was every colour from black to white, ginger, tabby and tortoiseshell. They were all more or less related. Our attention was drawn to a noisy little black and white - rather like the Felix cat food cat. We picked him up. "Do you know", the owner said, volubly "at one time we thought he was dead. we found him not moving, spreadeagled on the floor. But he's fine now." After that, there was no putting this little one back in the mix. We named him Amadeus for his musical and persistent Miaow, and decided to bring him home. (We later discovered that he had suffered a broken pelvis, and wondered if one of the dogs had given him a shake).
We wanted two cats and gazed at the heaving piles of babies, wondering who might be a companion to Amadeus. Suddenly there was a loud squeaking coming from behind a radiator. We rescued a little fluffy white and tortoiseshell kitten who had got stuck. Perfect! The owners said she been sort of reserved for a woman who wanted to give her to her one-year-old grandson. Terrible, we said. He's too little, she's too little. In this way we persuaded her that we could give her the best care and she was ours.
Lizzie named her Arietty and she did have a lovely life with us. Neither cat was as healthy as they might have been, being inbred and having had indifferent care. Both had to have calcium supplements for the first few months and Amadeus died suddenly at age 4.
But, life without a cat or two to share it? Impossible! And it seems that my daughters both agree.
I guess it had to happen. Becky and Richard caved in (without much resistance, I'm sure) to Carmen's longing for a pet. To achieve this they went to a local rescue centre in L'Eliana. "Battersea, it was not", Becky told me. "There was a room full of adults and another full of kittens." From this melee they chose Rosie and Mac an unrelated pair of four-month olds who seem to be rather cute. In my day
After my cats Agamemnon and Amelia died in 1993, we were told of some kittens needing new homes. They were at a ramshacke farm cottage near Priddy. The Kittens were in an undecorated and unfurnished room with a board fixed across the door to keep them from straying. The mother cats - there were three, a mother and daughters - hopped across it at will, as did the farm dogs who jumped in to eat the cat food.
In this room there were fifteen kittens, aged between four and eight weeks old, all rolling about and playing. There was every colour from black to white, ginger, tabby and tortoiseshell. They were all more or less related. Our attention was drawn to a noisy little black and white - rather like the Felix cat food cat. We picked him up. "Do you know", the owner said, volubly "at one time we thought he was dead. we found him not moving, spreadeagled on the floor. But he's fine now." After that, there was no putting this little one back in the mix. We named him Amadeus for his musical and persistent Miaow, and decided to bring him home. (We later discovered that he had suffered a broken pelvis, and wondered if one of the dogs had given him a shake).
We wanted two cats and gazed at the heaving piles of babies, wondering who might be a companion to Amadeus. Suddenly there was a loud squeaking coming from behind a radiator. We rescued a little fluffy white and tortoiseshell kitten who had got stuck. Perfect! The owners said she been sort of reserved for a woman who wanted to give her to her one-year-old grandson. Terrible, we said. He's too little, she's too little. In this way we persuaded her that we could give her the best care and she was ours.
Lizzie named her Arietty and she did have a lovely life with us. Neither cat was as healthy as they might have been, being inbred and having had indifferent care. Both had to have calcium supplements for the first few months and Amadeus died suddenly at age 4.
But, life without a cat or two to share it? Impossible! And it seems that my daughters both agree.
Friday, July 28, 2017
Distance View
Today
This morning, as we took our constitutional up the High Street I noticed one of those "Baby on Board" signs attached to the rear window. Although this one, bizarrely, said "Waterbaby on Board".
I'm not sure what these are trying to achieve; maybe people think that it's OK to drive right up against someone's boot if there isn't a baby in the car. Plus these cars often still have the signs up when there's no baby in the car.
In My Day
Of course, having people persistently driving too close is very irritating and can be intimidating. Sometime back in the '70s Paul decided to do something about it. First, with the help of his colleagues at Hannington's he made a long pyramid shaped box - rather like a Toblerone - that would fit along the rear parcel shelf or our Zephyr.
Then he made and inserted some letters that could be illuminated, reading "Keep your distance!" He wired it all up and put a switch on the dashboard. The idea was that he would flick this switch whenever someone was driving too close, telling them to back off a little.
I think he used it quite often. Whether it caused people to increase their distance or actually made them come closer so that they could see what the sign was saying, I can't say. Its effectiveness varied according to the time of day; in bright sunshine it was not very readable.
He certainly didn't carry the idea over into future cars and I don't think we have been more or less pestered by "tailgaters" since.
I've just trawled the internet and find that there are many bumper stickers carrying this message, including a strange one that says "new driver, keep your distance" as though it's OK not to with an experienced driver.
The truth is, whoever or whatever may be on board the vehicle in front, the two-second rule counts.
This morning, as we took our constitutional up the High Street I noticed one of those "Baby on Board" signs attached to the rear window. Although this one, bizarrely, said "Waterbaby on Board".
I'm not sure what these are trying to achieve; maybe people think that it's OK to drive right up against someone's boot if there isn't a baby in the car. Plus these cars often still have the signs up when there's no baby in the car.
In My Day
Of course, having people persistently driving too close is very irritating and can be intimidating. Sometime back in the '70s Paul decided to do something about it. First, with the help of his colleagues at Hannington's he made a long pyramid shaped box - rather like a Toblerone - that would fit along the rear parcel shelf or our Zephyr.
Then he made and inserted some letters that could be illuminated, reading "Keep your distance!" He wired it all up and put a switch on the dashboard. The idea was that he would flick this switch whenever someone was driving too close, telling them to back off a little.
I think he used it quite often. Whether it caused people to increase their distance or actually made them come closer so that they could see what the sign was saying, I can't say. Its effectiveness varied according to the time of day; in bright sunshine it was not very readable.
He certainly didn't carry the idea over into future cars and I don't think we have been more or less pestered by "tailgaters" since.
I've just trawled the internet and find that there are many bumper stickers carrying this message, including a strange one that says "new driver, keep your distance" as though it's OK not to with an experienced driver.
The truth is, whoever or whatever may be on board the vehicle in front, the two-second rule counts.
Sunday, July 23, 2017
Wedding Favours
Today
Last week I was disappointed that I had to cancel going to my friends' youngest daughter's wedding, because Paul didn't feel well enough to travel.
Lizzie went, though. "You received a mention in the speeches, Mum," she said "John said that he thought that you and Dad had paid the train fare to London for their wedding".
In My Day
Weddings always used to be so much more on a shoestring; at least in my experience. On New Year's Eve 1976, John and Beverley decided to tie the knot. Beverley had set her heart on having the ceremony at Caxton Hall in London, the same as her parents. This was duly arranged and we planned to drive as far as South London, then catch a train to Victoria.
The wedding guests consisted of Paul & Me, who were also to be witnesses. We drove up as far as East Croydon station, parked and hopped on the train. As we whizzed through Clapham Junction John looked a little wistful. "What are you thinking, John?" I asked. "Well", he said "I rather wish we'd gone for the whole thing, penguin suits and all....." A bit late for that, John!
We walked from Victoria to Caxton Hall and had a simple and happy ceremony. Afterwards we walked back, buying a single of "Don't Cry for me Argentina" that had just been released. Beverley sent flowers to her Mum to let her know what had occurred.
Then back to Crystal Palace and to David's house, where we found the children perched on chairs to throw rice over the bride and groom and enjoyed a feast of Xmas left-overs.
We all drove in convoy back to Eastbourne where we had a huge party, confusing guests who weren't sure whether it was to celebrate my birthday, the wedding or New Year. Doh! All three of course.
I have no memory of paying for all our tickets; we were all equally poor at that time. If I did, John, it was a pleasure.
Last week I was disappointed that I had to cancel going to my friends' youngest daughter's wedding, because Paul didn't feel well enough to travel.
Lizzie went, though. "You received a mention in the speeches, Mum," she said "John said that he thought that you and Dad had paid the train fare to London for their wedding".
In My Day
Weddings always used to be so much more on a shoestring; at least in my experience. On New Year's Eve 1976, John and Beverley decided to tie the knot. Beverley had set her heart on having the ceremony at Caxton Hall in London, the same as her parents. This was duly arranged and we planned to drive as far as South London, then catch a train to Victoria.The wedding guests consisted of Paul & Me, who were also to be witnesses. We drove up as far as East Croydon station, parked and hopped on the train. As we whizzed through Clapham Junction John looked a little wistful. "What are you thinking, John?" I asked. "Well", he said "I rather wish we'd gone for the whole thing, penguin suits and all....." A bit late for that, John!
We walked from Victoria to Caxton Hall and had a simple and happy ceremony. Afterwards we walked back, buying a single of "Don't Cry for me Argentina" that had just been released. Beverley sent flowers to her Mum to let her know what had occurred.
Then back to Crystal Palace and to David's house, where we found the children perched on chairs to throw rice over the bride and groom and enjoyed a feast of Xmas left-overs.
We all drove in convoy back to Eastbourne where we had a huge party, confusing guests who weren't sure whether it was to celebrate my birthday, the wedding or New Year. Doh! All three of course.
I have no memory of paying for all our tickets; we were all equally poor at that time. If I did, John, it was a pleasure.
Wednesday, July 19, 2017
Speech Day
Today
This morning I was honoured to support Joan while she presented a new award to the local primary school. This was the David Dixon award for improvement in writing and it was given to a small girl who, with much effort, had discovered how to get her ideas into written form.
The event was held at St Peter and Paul's church in Shepton Mallet and was a happy affair. The teachers of the year six leaving class had put together an amusing description of notable events during the year and children presented a leaving teacher with beautiful handmade cards. Gifts of Bibles (it is a C of E school), alarm clocks and hoodies with the year and pupils' names on the back were given to each child in the leaving year.
Later, talking to Joan, I said "do you remember speech days?"
In My Day
At my school and, I am sure, at countless other throughout the country, we had an annual "speech day". We all gathered in the hall, teachers were flossied up in full cap and gown and we were harangued for quite a long time by various people whom we never otherwise saw. Governors were a fearsome bunch in those days, not at all like the ever visible and very local head of governors who spoke today.
We sang the school hymn - "The Skye Boat Song", and, predictably, saw the same high-flyers receive prizes each year. There were no prizes for students for effort, improvement, politeness nor for any other indications that some of us were struggling against the odds.
Prizes all seemed to be improving books, such as volumes of Tennyson, so they weren't exactly things to envy. It was more that, for most of us, it was an event to observe, rather than participate in. And, unless you were already very good at music, sport or classics, you could do nothing to change the outcome.
And as for giving each child a reward or the teachers doing a bit of karaoke satirising the year's events and making light-hearted digs at pupils' and teachers' foibles, heaven forfend.
It's all part, it seems to me, of modern education being an experience shared between parents, pupils and teachers, rather than simply being handed down from high.
I was glad to be part of this event and very much hope that the children will remember and treasure today.
This morning I was honoured to support Joan while she presented a new award to the local primary school. This was the David Dixon award for improvement in writing and it was given to a small girl who, with much effort, had discovered how to get her ideas into written form.
The event was held at St Peter and Paul's church in Shepton Mallet and was a happy affair. The teachers of the year six leaving class had put together an amusing description of notable events during the year and children presented a leaving teacher with beautiful handmade cards. Gifts of Bibles (it is a C of E school), alarm clocks and hoodies with the year and pupils' names on the back were given to each child in the leaving year.
Later, talking to Joan, I said "do you remember speech days?"
In My Day
At my school and, I am sure, at countless other throughout the country, we had an annual "speech day". We all gathered in the hall, teachers were flossied up in full cap and gown and we were harangued for quite a long time by various people whom we never otherwise saw. Governors were a fearsome bunch in those days, not at all like the ever visible and very local head of governors who spoke today.
We sang the school hymn - "The Skye Boat Song", and, predictably, saw the same high-flyers receive prizes each year. There were no prizes for students for effort, improvement, politeness nor for any other indications that some of us were struggling against the odds.
Prizes all seemed to be improving books, such as volumes of Tennyson, so they weren't exactly things to envy. It was more that, for most of us, it was an event to observe, rather than participate in. And, unless you were already very good at music, sport or classics, you could do nothing to change the outcome.
And as for giving each child a reward or the teachers doing a bit of karaoke satirising the year's events and making light-hearted digs at pupils' and teachers' foibles, heaven forfend.
It's all part, it seems to me, of modern education being an experience shared between parents, pupils and teachers, rather than simply being handed down from high.
I was glad to be part of this event and very much hope that the children will remember and treasure today.
Wednesday, June 07, 2017
Joint Enterprise
Today
There are so many miracles in today's medical world that it's easy to think that, once we are in the surgeon's hands, there is nothing more we have to do. Of course, that's not quite right; in most cases, it's a question of co-operation; working with the surgeons to achieve the right outcome.
This morning Paul at last received the go-ahead for a total knee replacement. The procedure is fairly routine, but in order to get full benefit, there are exercises to do, both before and after the operation. And exercise isn't really in my husband's vocabulary.
In My Day
Back in the day, there was much less emphasis on rehabilitation. Patients spent a lot more time in bed following treatment, which was not often the best way to recovery.
When he was seventy-four, my father had a stroke. This meant that Daddy's right side was severely affected, and he couldn't walk, use his right arm or speak properly. He was kept in bed at home and I don't remember seeing a physiotherapist or similar ever turning up.
Daddy, however, was a man of action, and being cooped up in bed was not, in his view, an option. So every day he struggled out of bed and attempted to walk; gradually bringing control to his limbs. When the doctor next paid a visit, after about ten days, Daddy got himself to the front door to let him in. The doctor was amazed and pleased at Daddy's progress. Clearly, there had been no provision to help him, but his ability to help himself was a matter for wonder and praise.
And he was eventually able to walk again and use his right arm to an extent. He gave up driving when he found that his right foot couldn't quite make the transition from accelerator to brake fast enough for safety and his speech was always a little slurred after that.
But he lived on till eighty-six, only becoming immobile in the last year or so, mainly because of an unrelated health issue.
I hope that Paul will learn the lesson and see that his recovery is truly a joint enterprise.
There are so many miracles in today's medical world that it's easy to think that, once we are in the surgeon's hands, there is nothing more we have to do. Of course, that's not quite right; in most cases, it's a question of co-operation; working with the surgeons to achieve the right outcome.
This morning Paul at last received the go-ahead for a total knee replacement. The procedure is fairly routine, but in order to get full benefit, there are exercises to do, both before and after the operation. And exercise isn't really in my husband's vocabulary.
In My Day
Back in the day, there was much less emphasis on rehabilitation. Patients spent a lot more time in bed following treatment, which was not often the best way to recovery.
When he was seventy-four, my father had a stroke. This meant that Daddy's right side was severely affected, and he couldn't walk, use his right arm or speak properly. He was kept in bed at home and I don't remember seeing a physiotherapist or similar ever turning up.
Daddy, however, was a man of action, and being cooped up in bed was not, in his view, an option. So every day he struggled out of bed and attempted to walk; gradually bringing control to his limbs. When the doctor next paid a visit, after about ten days, Daddy got himself to the front door to let him in. The doctor was amazed and pleased at Daddy's progress. Clearly, there had been no provision to help him, but his ability to help himself was a matter for wonder and praise.
And he was eventually able to walk again and use his right arm to an extent. He gave up driving when he found that his right foot couldn't quite make the transition from accelerator to brake fast enough for safety and his speech was always a little slurred after that.
But he lived on till eighty-six, only becoming immobile in the last year or so, mainly because of an unrelated health issue.
I hope that Paul will learn the lesson and see that his recovery is truly a joint enterprise.
Monday, May 29, 2017
First Love
Today
What an evening! Last night I went to the Colston Hall to hear a performance of Monteverdi's L'Orfeo by the Baroque Soloists and Monteverdi Choir under John Elliott Gardner. It was semi-staged but this did not reduce the drama and quality of singing. Nor did the fact that there was no interval and we sat in our seats for two and a half hours.
"Ravishing!" I enthused "I felt Orfeo's pain. Best opera ever written!"
In My Day
As readers of this blog will know, I've been a fan of early music since my teens. When I was a student of theatre design at the West Susses College of Design in Worthing, we were asked to design costumes for Orfeo.
We were given a choice of Gluck's Orfeo ed Eurydice or Monteverdi's L'Orfeo. No contest! Alone in my group I chose the Monteverdi and splashed out on a vinyl boxed set of a very superior performance. I designed elaborate costumes, basing them on the sort of art used in the 17th century. I provided for Deus ex Machina moments (I don't think I got as far as working out the actual mechanics).
I've no idea what happened to those designs; another lost something from my life, but I listened to the music again and again. Orfeo's plea to Charon would melt the stoniest heart, I thought. Here it is:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VYqF3TTaZcc
When I read that this was the first fully composed opera I was amazed and almost wondered why anyone would dare to follow it.
I've seen it several times since; once by Kent Opera in Eastbourne and once at the Theatre Royal Bath - a strange realisation that almost eclipsed the music.
But not quite; I still respond to this story in music of joy, pain and hope as though it was my first time of hearing. And, among, opera, it's still my first love.
What an evening! Last night I went to the Colston Hall to hear a performance of Monteverdi's L'Orfeo by the Baroque Soloists and Monteverdi Choir under John Elliott Gardner. It was semi-staged but this did not reduce the drama and quality of singing. Nor did the fact that there was no interval and we sat in our seats for two and a half hours.
"Ravishing!" I enthused "I felt Orfeo's pain. Best opera ever written!"
In My Day
As readers of this blog will know, I've been a fan of early music since my teens. When I was a student of theatre design at the West Susses College of Design in Worthing, we were asked to design costumes for Orfeo.
We were given a choice of Gluck's Orfeo ed Eurydice or Monteverdi's L'Orfeo. No contest! Alone in my group I chose the Monteverdi and splashed out on a vinyl boxed set of a very superior performance. I designed elaborate costumes, basing them on the sort of art used in the 17th century. I provided for Deus ex Machina moments (I don't think I got as far as working out the actual mechanics).
I've no idea what happened to those designs; another lost something from my life, but I listened to the music again and again. Orfeo's plea to Charon would melt the stoniest heart, I thought. Here it is:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VYqF3TTaZcc
When I read that this was the first fully composed opera I was amazed and almost wondered why anyone would dare to follow it.
I've seen it several times since; once by Kent Opera in Eastbourne and once at the Theatre Royal Bath - a strange realisation that almost eclipsed the music.
But not quite; I still respond to this story in music of joy, pain and hope as though it was my first time of hearing. And, among, opera, it's still my first love.
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